


We Shall Be Dangerous

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, a fragile thing., archive warnings: alt. universe, archive warnings: death/grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now there was <i>him</i>, all grief-ridden and exposed, writhing around in her open wounds and there was no <i>taking it</i> anymore. (4x01 + beyond, AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Shall Be Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated in part to Zoe ([herosargent](http://herosargent.tumblr.com)), who has taken it upon herself to post Scott and Lydia goodies on her Tumblr (for me) even though she doesn’t ship it (as of right now) and doesn’t really understand why I do. I don’t even really understand why I do, but that’s what this is for! You’re a tried and true sweetheart, darling. Be good!

And together we shall dig graves for all  
that die in us,  
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,  
And **we shall be dangerous**.

\-- Kahlil Gibran, “The Madman”

—

“Drink it,” she hisses, fingers already wrapped around the wet shot glass, last washed God knows when, stinking of tequila when it’s drowning in vodka and all she wants to do is _drink it_. It coats her tongue and runs down her throat sharp and biting, in that way she had started to like since Allison’s death.

There’s a deliciously clear drop of liquid dripping from the corner of her polished lips and she hardens her gaze, squeezing a hand around Stiles’ wrist.

“ _Drink it, Stiles_.”

He takes the shot like the inexperienced teenager he _is_ , the rim of the glass stays attached to his mouth but she can tell he’s taking it in sips, watches the skin of his throat moving agitatedly up and down, trying to keep his tongue from the taste of it, _but you can’t_.

There’s an effort to keep from coughing but it’s a struggle, and she can feel the bullet warming in the palm of her fist, feel the lines and indentations of the skull carved into the metal as if they were the lines of her own hand. She places it on the surface of the damp, sticky bar, let’s the sound of it hitting the wood echo in the corners of her own skull as if she had heard it reverberate through the speaker of a megaphone.

“We’re here for Derek Hale.”

—

She had been surprised to learn how intimate of an experience it was – being able to sense when someone was close to death. How in that moment, you just couldn’t believe you had ever been closer to anyone else. Even if it were a stranger, some nameless man in Mexico, nothing more than a silhouette, in the seconds before the knife pierced his chest, it was as if she had shared the world with him and then some; and maybe she had. Every death, even those she secretly welcomed, she experienced as a personal loss.

Ever since she had been “awoken” she felt as if she had become permanently stuck in the first few days following a funeral, perpetual grief, confusion, and devastation. It had gotten easier to hide, like remembering to brush your teeth every day, or getting used to a new schedule at school; mourning the dead was her new habit, and she had slowly begun to realize that there was no kicking it.

He wouldn’t die that day, but he would come close; close enough that she felt it, felt _him_ in all his woe and bravery, felt herself laughably inadequate in comparison; thought she felt his pain as if it were her own and could not bear it, not for the lifetime worth of memories crammed inside her rapidly shrinking head. _Let it burst_ , she thought desperately, _let my head pop with the weight of it all_.

She thought she could feel the ghost of his hand in hers, and in the illusion of his touch she became enveloped in his naïve certainty that night, though no less sincere, a confidence that had made her _brave_. That had left her bruised throat bare of a disguise, her heart only just beginning to glance in an unfamiliar direction, both frightening and exciting. There was an unholy screech growing at the back of her throat, as if the claws of a beast were dug into the soft tissue of her insides, climbing to the surface. 

“Kate Argent,” she heard him exclaim, and felt the taut muscles of her throat loosen. Not in reply but in realization, _Kate Argent_. She could hear the disbelief and anger in his voice, and she just knew that his thoughts mirrored her own. _Why her?_

—

3 months earlier.

After Allison’s funeral, Lydia’s mother had gone grocery shopping. She had asked Lydia if she wanted to come, maybe pick out something special for dinner, but there had been no answer, and the house had gone utterly silent at her departure. Aside from the gentle fall of the rain against the windows and the hum of the air conditioner, it had never been quieter. She sat on the hardwood floor of her living room and barely felt herself draw breath, tried to pay attention to the usually rhythmic movement of her chest and couldn’t seem to tell if there _was_ any. She had been on the verge of a silent panic when he had knocked on her backdoor.

“I knew it was you,” she said smiling, looking up at him from her spot on the floor. His suit dripped lightly onto the tips of her bright red toenails and she giggled quietly, tiredly.

“Lydia,” he asked, kneeling in front of her, “are you okay?”

She saw his wince mere seconds later; saw the regret in his eyes, as if any of _this_ was okay. She wrapped her fingers around the lapel of his suit, surprised at the way it actually fit him, unlike most teenage boys forced to put on a suit.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

“No, Lydia, I’m okay.”

Using his shoulders to balance herself she stood up shakily, “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

It had gotten darker since her mother left. The rain was only a drizzle now, and she could barely hear it over the sound of her bare feet against the tile floor. She was surprised she had been able to hear anything afterwards; the world had been muffled ever since. There was a single light on, shining above the island in the kitchen, but the darkness suited her for the moment, seemed to suit the both of them. She couldn’t _quite_ remember where the glasses were, which was weird, seeing as how she had lived in this house her entire life.

“I don’t need anything,” he reassured her, softly, smiling, as always.

She shrugged apologetically and sat on the stool next to his, her elbows resting against the marble countertop, chin in her hands. There was a flash of lightening in the window behind Scott’s head and for a few moments he was nothing but a dark shape, slumped and detail-less. She could smell his cologne.

There was no telling when she had made the decision to reach out for him, to grip the material of his suit where she had only moments earlier, but she certainly hadn’t give any amount of thought to the idea. Pulling him forward, touching her lips to the corner of his mouth and leaving a subtle hint of red behind. The world remained silent, every time she moved it was as if she did so in slow motion, and the kiss was gentle, muffled in its own unique way; unlike any other kiss she had given before.

The look in his eyes would be hard to forget, all of that deep sadness, confusion, and loneliness. Something that was hard to put into words. When the lightening had flashed a second time, he became a shadow once again, an indistinct shape moving towards her, cold hands cupping her face, his lips pressed meaningfully against hers.

—

present day.

His apology came at her back, the words plinking unpleasantly against the back of her head, like pebbles thrown at her window.

“I’m sorry.”

So _genuinely_ sorry, she almost allowed herself to forget the anger she had felt since they left Mexico and let him make his contrition uncontested. Lydia had heard her fair share of apologies, many of them said only for the sake of saying them, and not for much more. _Your apology is noted_ , she would reply, lids heavy over her eyes, coquettish and forgiving. There was a strange, twisted part of her that liked Scott McCall’s apologies, as unnecessary as they were, just to hear the absolute honesty in his voice – to temporarily erase any semblance of doubt from where it had become permanently affixed to the lining of her heart.

“ _What_ are you apologizing for?” she replied in a half-whisper, voice raspy and tired. Her hair was draped around her shoulders, frizzy and wild; she hadn’t been able to stand the feeling of the pins against her scalp any longer, and now it languished in the suffocating heat of southern California.

“For having to go through that,” he answered, surprised, like she didn’t already _know_.

“ _You_ were tortured, Scott.”

The desert was still dark in the pre-dawn of early morning, and they stood a good distance away from the parked, quiet jeep where their friends slept, oblivious. She envied them their unconscious state, an irreconcilable yearning for sleep washed over her, and she thought longingly of a time when she could sleep a full 8 hours without waking up in terrified tears.

“How have you been?”

“Let’s _not_ do this, okay?” She had thrown the words lazily over her shoulder, as if they didn’t matter, but the way his eyes widened she knew he had felt the weight of them against his chest; knew that he would bear them for her, even if she didn’t want him to. She walked resolutely forward, wanted to let him stand there in all his awkward, teenage glory; let him think that she was being emotional, _hysterical_. Shrug it off, go back inside the jeep and sleep like everyone else.

The gentle touch of his hand around her wrist was surprising and she twisted in his grip, eyes hardened with disbelief.

“You don’t have to bear it alone,” he pleaded nervously. Wanting, _asking_ to let him be her friend, to talk about Allison as if it wasn’t tearing him apart every single day; as if she hadn’t already seen it before she had felt it only hours earlier, had for the first time wondered if it was possible to feel _too much_. Would it be the death of her? Do they cross _themselves_ off a hunter’s list?

“ _You_ should talk,” she hissed back angrily, the flush in her face traveling downwards to the base of her throat, the peach-colored flesh splotched and pink.

“Lydia—” he began softly. She saw his hand move towards her shoulder out of the corner of her eye and she slapped it away, eyes narrowed.

“ _Don’t_ apologize,” she said, “ _don’t_ act like you’re handling this any better than I am, when I _know_ you are _not_.”

Her heart flip-flopped in her chest and she knew he could hear it; she felt her voice begin to quiver, and a familiar panic, not unlike the one she had felt in her veins the day of Allison’s funeral, began tunneling through her, like a freight train without its brakes.

“I _know_ ,” she said again, “I _felt_ it.”

Allison had died months ago, but every single day for those past few months it was as if she had _just_ died, and not like they had only just attended her funeral, but as if the sword had only _just_ run her through. And she was always one breath away from a horrifying shriek that would ring in her ears for days afterwards, only it had been _months_ , and she couldn’t sleep without feeling it, couldn’t eat, work or _breathe_ without feeling it. And now there was _him_ , all grief-ridden and exposed, writhing around in her open wounds and there was no _taking it_ anymore.

The dirt rose up against the tops of her thighs as she dropped to the ground, and the world was suddenly lighter, she could make out mountains in the distance. He crouched at her side, silent and tense, resting a tentative hand against her back and she could feel the heat of him through her clothes; _why was everything so damn hot?_ There was a stinging sensation in the skin of her cheeks and she knew she had gotten burned the day before, tasted the salt unpleasantly against her lips.

“I don’t _want_ to _know_ anymore,” she whispered shakily. There was a heavy silence; chirping insects ceased their repetitive chatter, even the breeze settled, the dust falling to the earth. His forehead knocked pleasantly against the shell of her ear, his neck drooped in exhaustion, and she felt surrender in his touch. _Apologize_ , she thought, _apologize until the words become unrecognizable on your tongue._

“Scott—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted quietly, his breath warm against the skin of her neck. She heard him take a breath of dry air, a slight quake in its release. “ _I’m sorry._ ”

She slapped the back of his head playfully, letting it rest against the softness of his hair.

“ _Please_ stop saying that.”

She could feel the sun now; as it rose, she could feel its heat, see its light. As he pulled away, the sun shone against his face and she could see his familiar features with perfect clarity. She saw the shape he made and admired the strength there, felt it in the hard muscles of his neck as he faced her with a shy grin. Her dark kitchen faded away in the morning light, and he was no longer a shadow.

—

5 years later.

Their apartment was small, and rarely quiet. Even when it wasn’t filled with the loud voices of their friends, there was always _something_ ; music playing softly from an old set of speakers he had found in his mom’s basement, a quiet laugh track from some old television show, stuck in syndication until long after anyone found it funny. The nightmares had lessened as she grew to control her abilities, but they were never gone completely, and waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, even with his arm wrapped tightly around her waist – it was a comfort to know that the voices she could barely hear in the dark of their bedroom were an echo of the television, and nothing more.

Billie Holiday was crooning from the radio on the bookcase when the front door to the empty apartment flew open, bouncing off the opposite wall. Malia and Lydia had Stiles propped between the two of them, his head falling forward, a dark red stain growing larger at the bottom of his shirt. Scott swiped his arm carelessly across the kitchen table, knocking off some old mail and an empty glass, shattering loudly in the dark apartment, a rude interruption in the once peaceful emptiness.

“Put him here,” Scott commanded, his tone sparing little room for argument.

After laying him carefully on the table, Lydia ran for the bedroom, the sleeves of her collared button-down rolled up to her elbows, blood staining her hands. “He’s been poisoned,” she said, digging through large piles of old books, the pages fragile and yellowed, “what color was the venom?”

“Blue, I think,” Scott answered from the doorway, resting both hands on either side of the narrow frame, “can you make an antidote?”

She pulled a small, slim text out from underneath the blanket she had tossed carelessly aside earlier that morning and grinned up at him, her eyes bright, “What do _you_ think?”

—

It was the middle of October but she had gone without a jacket, the sleeves still hastily rolled up her arms, the blood dry now against her skin. She walked quietly in the woods of the preserve, the moon shining brightly between the empty branches of the trees. The air was cool, she felt her skin prickle, but she _needed_ to feel it all, every sensation, just in case the rising of hair at the back of her neck was a message, and not just the wind. Even without having eyes on Scott she knew he was there, felt his strength and anger rustling the leaves against the earth.

It was close, whatever it was that had attacked Stiles, it was roaming the woods with her, body close to the ground, moving swiftly and despite the effort she felt it expend, quite loudly to her own ears.

“I can hear you,” she whispered laughingly, resting her hand against the peeled bark of a tree. There was a dull screeching in response, like nails on a chalkboard. A twig snapped tellingly behind her and in that moment she saw her death, like a silent film, in an instant and gone just as quickly. There was a loud, bone-quaking howl as she turned to face it’s eyes, dark and hollow, but was met with the dark cotton of Scott’s shirt instead, stained with dirt and blood, and she couldn’t help but think fleetingly of having bought it only a week or so earlier. _What a waste_.

Ultimately it was one of their less epic foes, a threat yes, but a manageable one. There was a loud crack as she watched the creature’s body thrown against a thick cluster of trees, and Scott was standing before her only seconds later, his chest heaving, a proud, stupid smile plastered on his face.

“That didn’t take long,” he quipped, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Beautifully done, as always.”

“I thought you agreed it was time to stop underestimating me,” she laughed, clutching his shirt in her hands.

“My fault then.”

“I believe so.”

His forehead came to rest against hers, even though she could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he roughly kissed her, his hands traveling slowly downwards to grip her waist. It was familiar, like the kiss they had shared in the early morning light of the desert, after Mexico, before Kate Argent and her unfathomable need to make a mess of things. She shivered when the wind picked up and a group of clouds passed over the moon, casting them in darkness. His eyes glowed red in the shadows, and she smiled against the warmth of his lips.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check me out or yell at me on [Tumblr](http://princesbleed.tumblr.com) and/or listen to the short Scott and Lydia mix that I posted on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/alanabeans/a-fragile-thing).


End file.
